


How Jon Snow Became King Beyond the Wall

by goldenhand9107



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Canon Compliant, Canon Continuation, Epilogue, Gen, Introspective Jon Snow, Jon Snow is King-Beyond-the-Wall, Jon Snow is a Targaryen, Jon Snow-centric, King Jon Snow, No Slash, Not Beta Read, Post-Canon, Post-Finale, Post-Season/Series 08 Finale, Slow Build, So here's this, We really didn't get anything we should've from Jon in Season 8
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-09-29
Updated: 2020-09-29
Packaged: 2020-11-07 14:16:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 20,312
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20818661
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/goldenhand9107/pseuds/goldenhand9107
Summary: A series chronicling Jon's life once he says goodbye to his sisters and brother and goes North. Canon compliant (for the most part)





	1. The Beginning

**Author's Note:**

> This is basically what the title entails. As people are well aware now, Season 8 sucks for Jon, and he was reduced to a plot device with like three different lines. This is meant to fill in the gaps about his personal feelings and other thoughts. There will be a lot of character monologuing and introspective thought in this Jon-centric fic. It also will feature Jon’s journey to come to terms with what he did to Daenerys and what his identity as a Targaryen really means for him, as we definitely didn't get to see that in season 8. Canon compliant (mostly, I think), a continuation of events for Jon after he goes North.

Jon smiled. For the first time in a long time, he genuinely smiled. Sure, there were those grins full of lust and an illusioned love when he looked at Daenerys. Or the ones he had when he looked upon his family, on Sansa, Arya, and Bran. He was proud, of the people they’d become, the things they’ve accomplished, and that always brought a smile to his face. 

But, as full of strength and joy as the other smiles may have been, none could compare to the grin on Jon Snow’s face as he gazed out into the endless forest of the North. The _real_ North, as Tormund has put it. He trotted along slowly on his horse, the resistance of the deep heavy snow noticeable in the animals’ pace. He felt the feeling of the cold air pierce his trousers, a brisk wind blow up underneath his cape and making his whole body shiver. But he still smiled. He welcomed the cold air, and the self-preserving tremble that came along with it. It reminded him of home. Of where he belonged. 

He held his soft grin as they slowly entered the woods, Ghost many paces ahead of Jon and his horse. The direwolf blended in with the brilliant white snow, but Jon could still make out a moving silhouette of a large animal bounding through the thick powder. This only made his grin wider. 

A few hours passed, as he and the other free folk trudged onwards, looking for a place to camp. He and the two other Nights Watchmen who accompanied him were the only crows here; many of the men insisted he retake his mantel of Lord Commander (whether he’d be the 998th again or the 1000th following Edd’s death remained to be seen). For a split second Jon considered it. He thought about being the de facto leader of the unwanted and the exiled, as he once was. But he couldn’t forget the way it ended the first time, with a betrayal that almost broke him. And when he caught Tormund’s gaze in the room, he knew that Castle Black wasn’t the right place for him.

He declined the offer, and instead talked his way into being a “emissary” for the Nights Watch; he would maintain peace between the free folk and Nights Watch, sending back occasional messages about the status of their negotiations and the such. Although, most of the men knew it was bullshit, and was merely an excuse for Jon to remain beyond the wall. His exile from King’s Landing may have been punishment for killing Daenerys, but even if he wasn’t sent away, Jon figured he still would’ve ended up in the far North.

Jon heard an increasing sound of crunching snow behind him, and he turned to see Tormund catching up on horseback to talk to him. 

“What are you smiling at crow?” The ginger questioned, mischievously prying at his friend. Jon realized he was still smiling, and chuckled slightly. 

“I’m happy to be here.” He looked at the wildling. “In the Real North.” He deepened his voice to mimic Tormund’s gravel, and the other man laughed and clapped Jon on the shoulder. 

“I knew you’d end up here. No matter what happened with your Dragon Queen in the South, you’d find your way back here. With us.” He side eyed the rest of the free folk. Jon’s mood mellowed slightly at the mention of Daenerys. He sighed. 

“It was meant to be a punishment, me coming here.” He looked over at his friend. “For killing her.” Tormund seemed confused by his remark. 

“It seemed to me, and to many others in Winterfell that you loved her.” He noted. When Jon seemed surprised at his remark, Tormund leaned towards him and smirked. “You weren’t being very subtle.” The wilding said, clearly insinuating something more. Jon softly smiled again, before losing it as he thought about Daenerys. 

“I did.” Jon stared forward, memories of the ruins of Kings Landing haunting his thoughts. He paused before speaking. “She slaughtered many innocents down South. I….” Jon trailed off, the painfulness of his decision resurfacing during this conversation. 

“You don’t need to explain yourself to me Jon Snow.” Jon made eye contact with Tormund once more. Tormund nodded, reassuring him that there was no judgement between them. 

“We’ll make camp soon, and go hunting before it gets dark. I’ll have Norvir get you a bow, so you can come with us.” The wilding changed the subject, and kicked his horse to speed up. Jon was left alone, to wallow and brood. He hung his head for a moment. There was no need to feel guilty. He made a decision, one that ensured a safe future for all of the people in Westeros. No matter how much it pained him, no matter how much he wished Drogon had burned him to a crisp that day in the Red Keep, no matter how much he longed take it all back. He made his choice. And that choice was in the past now, with nothing that could be done. And all the innocents that were spared from a mad Targaryen queen who was hellbent on a rampage across the continent were safe, thanks to him. He needed to remember that. He needed to come to terms with any regret.

Jon Snow, the secret heir to Iron Throne, the savior of all of Westeros. The Prince that was Promised. He inhaled shakily, and went to join Tormund in talking with the other free folk.

==========================================

After an exhausting, and relatively underwhelming hunting expedition, Jon Snow almost immediately fell asleep on the cold hard ground. The women had made a few large fires to roast food on, but Jon passed out without dinner. Besides, he wasn’t quite in the mood for any of the scrawny animals they’d managed to kill. The ground was wet with melted snow, as the fires had cleared out areas where many wildlings were settling in to sleep on. He saw families with small children, old women, and some lonesome men all huddled by the fire and each other. The free folk had always been one large family, and Jon felt safe knowing he had a chance to be part of it once more. 

Once he had fallen asleep, his rest was not easy. He was plagued by the events of the past few months; the dead clambering over each other at Winterfell, Daenerys’ slaughter of Kings Landing. Flashes of memory he longed to put behind him made Jon toss and turn all throughout the night. A sharp _ching _of Longclaw slicing through defenseless Lannister soldiers, the brute force and yells of him and the others fighting off wights. It all poked and prodded his mind, and he wanted to wake up, to be rid of it all forever. 

But before the nightmares ended, he saw something he knew wasn’t a memory. He watched, as the looming black dragon landed harshly on mossy stone. He was clutching Daenerys’ body in one of his claws, and gently placed her down in the center of what seemed to be a ruined temple. The gray stone arches were worn and crumbled, and green vines and other plants draped over every part of the structures. Drogon purred as he nosed his mother, just as Jon had seen him do in the throne room. 

With a terrifying screech, Drogon opened his mouth and brought forth fire. Hotter than anything imaginable, he roasted the ground Daenerys’ body sat on, along with the dragon queen herself. The flames licked the edges of the stones, charring them black, and causing a few to crumble. It was then Jon understood; Drogon was honoring his mother by burning her body. He didn’t recognize where they were, but he knew it had to be far, possibly somewhere in Essos. Once the dragon stopped burning, he titled his head back and let out a deafening roar. The noise bounced around in Jon’s skull, and he felt overwhelmed. He shot up awake, ending the vision once and for all. 

Jon sat panting loudly, afraid by what he had just witnessed. He glanced around and gained his bearings, remembering he was North with the free folk, resting on moist cold dirt. He stood up and brushed himself off, looking around to realize it was likely early morning. The sun was barely peeking over the horizon, and many of the free folk were still sleeping; A few were sitting awake, talking and eating the catch from last night. Jon looked around for Ghost, and spotted him sitting on the top of a small hill. The direwolf made eye contact with Jon, and he made his way over to his loyal pet. 

“Hey boy.” He stroked the wolf’s head, which was about the height of his midsection, if not taller. Ghost whined slightly, before nuzzling his master. Jon smiled softly, lowering himself to the snowy ground, and Ghost stretched before laying down next to him. He mindlessly pet the wolf, before deciding to confess to him as they watched the sun rise. 

“You know what I’ve been thinking about boy?” He asked his dog, not really expecting a response. He chuckled slightly.

“How coincidental the world can be.” He said, as he sighed. 

“I have a Stark mother and a Targaryen father. And, I have a pet direwolf and I’ve ridden a dragon.” He said to himself, more than Ghost. The wolf looked at him at the mention of Rhaegal. 

“Don’t be jealous boy, you’re still my favorite.” He said, before feeling sad. “And besides, I won’t be riding a dragon ever again.” He looked down, and Ghost seemed to sense his mood change. The direwolf put his head in Jon’s lap, and the man continued stroking him. 

There was a pause where he stayed silent, the cold wind whistling and blowing against Jon’s hair. The northern air had a certain scent to it, one that he had never really consciously thought about till now. It was a dull smell of water, similar to the salty oceans of the coastline but more pure and crisp. It was faint, but recognizable, as if the smell of the endless snow was awaking the memory of his time in the North. In this solemn moment, it was all that ran through his head; there was only the familiar and icy smell of the land beyond the wall, as well as the experiences which he still thought about to this day._ We should've stayed in that cave. _He shuddered; maybe if they did, none of this would have happened. Jon shook those from his thoughts and contemplated, finally deciding to continue his confession.

He exhaled deeply. “I never told Daenerys that I bonded with Rhaegal.” He lamented, more to himself. “In the same way I’m bonded with you. I could feel what he was feeling, I could almost talk to him, I dreamt about him in the same way I dreamt about you when I first got you Ghost.” He paused. “I think he was becoming more mine, rather than Dany’s.” He looked out on the sunrise somberly. 

“Tyrion said once that dragon’s belong to their riders.” He sighed. He didn’t really feel like he was talking to Ghost anymore, rather just thinking out loud. “I never really thought about it, but..…” He trailed off thinking about the true implications of a Targaryen father. _Dragonblood_, Tyrion had called it; a Targaryen’s ability to bond with dragons. He hung his head, thinking about the pain he felt in his chest a few weeks ago. One he’d eventually discovered had occurred at the same time a scorpion bolt pierced the neck of the dragon named for his father. Jon sighed again.

“Rhaegal died before I could truly admit any of that to myself.” He said shamefully. Acceptance was never Jon Snow’s strong suit. Ghost whimpered again, and Jon scratched the direwolf behind his good ear. The sun was almost completely over the horizon. 

“Maybe that’s why I dreamt of Drogon.” He hesitated, Sam’s words of _Aegon Targaryen_ echoing in his mind. “But I doubt that dragon will ever forgive me for what I did.” Jon couldn’t help feeling like he was reflecting his own thoughts now. He knew in his heart that he needed to forgive himself. But he didn’t know if he could. 

He watched the sunrise silently, thinking about how much his life had changed over the past few years. The Nights Watch, Ned Stark’s death, Ygritte, the white walkers, Daenerys, his real identity. His life before all of it seemed unrecognizable, yet favorable to all the horrors he’d endured since. _We never should have left Winterfell_. Sansa’s words from Castle Black never rang so true. 

Jon heard a holler from behind him, and turned to see Tormund crying out to him. The red head was gesturing for him to join, as it looked like the rest of the free folk were packing up camp to continue their trek. He lifted himself from the snowy ground, as Ghost did the same. The wolf shook excess snow from his fur, and gazed at Jon with the familiar sense of endearment he always did. Jon smirked, and trudged down the hill towards his friends and the rest of the free folk, leaving all thoughts of dragons and fire behind him. At least, for the time being.


	2. What Do You Do When It All Comes Crashing Down?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jon Snow thinks about the future, and becomes something he never expected.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> More inner-monologuing! Hooray! Sorry for the gap in publishing times, university has been an ass-whoop. A bit of a shorter chapter than I would've preferred, but I do think it turned out well? This is where I kind of take some of my own liberties with the canon, *cough* giving Jon Targaryen abilities *cough cough*. It would make sense within the story, but we never really saw any of it in the show. So I'm doing it now. 
> 
> I only have part of the next chapter written, so it might be a few weeks before I update. I do appreciate those who gave Kudos or subscribed to this work, it's been really fun writing . Feedback would be much appreciated, and I'll see y'all next chapter!
> 
> Cheers!

A few weeks passed. With most of the far north camps abandoned after the white walkers either slaughtered or scared away the inhabitants, the free folk had decided to search out new land to set up roots. With winter seemingly subsiding after the Night King’s death, Jon helped make the decision to head east towards the sea, as cultivating land and forming a civilization came easier near a body of water. Popular vote decided against settling in what was once Hardhome, as many free folk thought returning to the site of the massacre was bad luck.

So they marched onwards, headed northeast towards the coast. They moved slow, but not sluggish; transporting a few hundred wildlings was not easy, as they had materials to lug and very few people had horses. Parents carried small children on their backs, and the elderly sat on carts and in the wagons with their supplies. The snow was deep but not unreasonable; the free folk were adjusted to the living conditions of the North by now, so any problems were circumvented by quick tricks or experience. Jon lead the group, proudly sitting on his horse, conversing with Tormund or other's he'd built relationships with over the past couple of weeks.

He had befriended many free folk actually, even some who spoke for certain groups or factions of wildings; their representatives, so to speak. They all respected him for the help he provided getting them south of the wall and the efforts he’d put towards fighting the dead at Winterfell. Some of the smaller children called him “King Crow”, and Jon had a good laugh at that. The stories of the King in the North bled into the talk among people here, and it was funny how ironic the nickname really was. And Jon’s current leadership didn’t go unnoticed either. Getting a large group of traumatized families and warriors to find a new home was not easy, and he still got many thanks for his assistance, even after all these weeks.

Jon had expected that the decision to march east would result in stragglers abandoning the large group, and opting to create their own settlements. The free folk were well known for not bending the knee, so he was surprised to see that most of the wildings who survived the hardships south of the wall chose to stay with him. They chose to continue to follow where he lead, even though he’d made no indication that they should.

Maybe it was just a survival instinct that drove the free folk to remain part of the pack. Maybe they thought that they’d have a better chance of avoiding starvation if they hung around the rest of the wildings. But as Jon rode on his horse, the waters of the eastern sea just now coming in sight, the back of his mind kept suggesting something more. Something he really didn’t know how to explain.

He didn’t want to be Lord Commander. But others elected him to be so. He didn’t want to be King in the North. But others chose to follow him. He most certainly didn’t want to be King of the Seven (now Six) Kingdoms. But there were many who thought he should. Everywhere he went, he gained followers where he didn’t want them. People who actively chose _him, _when he couldn’t possibly understand why. He found that ruling was a necessity, not a desire. Lead the Nights Watch to protect innocent free folk. Lead the North to help the whole of Westeros survive.In the moment when he had the choice thrust in front of him, there was no reason for him to rule Westeros; he still thought that Dany would’ve made a great queen. But then……

He abandoned all thoughts of what had transpired in the South and instead thought about now. Right now, he found hundreds of free folk following his stead. They trusted his judgement when it came to survival, even though he’d had one huge lapse just months before. He still didn’t understand the quality in himself which caused so many to believe in him. It was that very trait that got him killed once before, and this time around he didn’t have a red priest to revive him. Jon craned his head back, and gazed at the free folk who trudged though the snow, optimistic for something better.

If he was to be put in the position again, what would he choose? Would he protect those who cannot protect themselves? Would he march these people into a brighter future? _King Crow_, they called him. _The King Beyond the Wall. _Jon gulped and turned forward again. He slowed his horse to set up camp in the forest they were in, and began talking with others about plans to make it to shoreline by tomorrow evening.

=============================================================================

“Jon!” He was woken from a deep slumber by Tormund’s worried scream. He threw his cloak off himself, grabbed Longclaw, and ran towards the source of the yell. It was incredibly dark out, the only light coming from a few small fires in the distance and one rather large one he found himself running towards. Oh.

Tormund was yelling because a wagon with supplies was up in smoke. A few free folk were panicking nearby, and one was aggressively throwing snow on top of the flames. The fire had engulfed the entirety of the wagon, and the wind was causing the flames to lick the bark of a nearby tree. It was sitting off to the side of a rather large clearing, but was still close enough where the fires could almost reach the tree. He slowed his run as he approached the ginger man.

“An animal knocked over a lantern in the night. We tried to isolate it by moving away other tents and wagons, but it’s getting larger and closer to the nearby trees.” Tormund pointed at the left side of the wagon, which had flames which were being blown into the side of the bark.

“Drinking water?” He asked tensely. Tormund shook his head.

“Already used the nearest store to put out part of it, but it just spread to cover of the wagon.” Jon squinted as he looked towards the flames, which seemed to be reaching about 10 feet in the air, nearly to the height to the leafless branches of the tall oaks.

“If we don’t put this out soon, the whole forest will be up in flames.” Tormund said. Jon watched as the fire singed the bark of the tree, and he grew nervous thinking about how fast it would spread if it caught just one.

He desperately looked around for a solution. The closest store of drinking water was on another wagon somewhere, buried out in the forest. There was no way to move the cart without seriously injuring oneself, and even so, pushing it in any direction would surely catch a tree on fire, as the strong winds that night would blow the flame in all sorts of directions.

“Seven hells!” Jon swore, as he racked his brain for ideas. The heat from the flames was gradually increasing, and he noticed a few wildings back up from the intensity. He panted from fear, as the situation seemed hopeless.

“Jon!” A wilding known as Laili called out to him, hurriedly pointing at something. Jon rushed to where she was.

“Look at the ground!” From this side of the wagon, Jon could tell what she was pointing at as she shouted. The snow had melted from the heat, and the ground was revealed to be ice, not dirt. It dawned on him: the clearing which the cart was sitting on was a pond. He looked at Laili, who nodded in agreement.

“Everyone! Grab something and start hitting the ground!” He unsheathed Longclaw, and stepped into the center of the clearing. The snow was melted slush here from the heat of the fire, and he kicked it away with his foot. Sure enough, the ground was the slippery surface of ice. He jammedhis sword into the ground with a loud grunt, and it cut through the ice. It didn’t seem to help in breaking the surface, as the layer seemed many inches thick, but his actions got others to grab hammers and swords and sticks and start pounding near the spot he stabbed.

Jon plunged his sword into the thick ice a few more times, but Longclaw only made deep cuts in the ice, and didn’t seem to be helping in cracking it. He looked around to see Tormund beating the ground with a large rock, and took off to find a rock similar to his. The cold winds blew in his face and he had to squint as he hurriedly looked around in the snow. He found a large stone just as he heard the sound of ice cracking.

He quickly stood and turned to see that the combined efforts of about 20 wildings had worked. The ice was splintering and cracking, and everyone scrambled off the surface and back into the forest, so they wouldn’t fall in. The fire continued burning as Tormund threw his rock into the center, causing the cracked ice to collapse inward. It created a large enough hole for the wagon to fall through, and Jon saw the water ripple and splash from the broken pieces of ice.

Jon and the wildings stood silent, as time seemed to slow down. A gust of wind tore through the forest and blasted the flames back towards a tree. Jon aggressively yelled and raced forward at the sudden wind. He slammed his side against the back of the burning wagon and thrust his body forward, making the wheels turn and slide on the ice. At that moment, he didn’t feel the heat or the cold, just the pain of a hard impact with a piece of burning timber.

The wagon lurched forward, and fell into the hole created in the ice. It splashed into the pond and sunk quickly, weighed down by the wood-turned-charcoal, and the fire hissed as it was extinguished by the freezing cold pond water. It was submerged in about 5 seconds, darkness engulfing the group of them as the source of light, and also danger, disappeared under water.

Jon, still panting, fell to his knees. He knew that he was engulfed by flames when he ran towards the wagon. The gust of wind ensured that. His face should be melting off, the whole right side of his body should be searing from the heat. But he felt nothing of the sort. He just felt a shiver of cold wind blow against him, as he heard distant shouts from someone who could only be Tormund.

Someone pulled out a torch and lit it, illuminating the group of them once more. Tormund ran in front of Jon, and smacked his cloth sleeve, which he just now realized was still on fire.

“You crazy bastard.” He sneered, almost laughing but still worried for his friend. He pat the fire out, and tore off the fabric. What both Tormund, Jon, and the wildings who stood around them saw was unexpected, to say the least. What they thought would be the nauseating image of bubbling, charred black skin was rather the dirty surface of Jon Snow’s arm. He had no burns at all, and when Tormund made eye contact with Jon, he saw there were no burns on his face either.

“The man who returned from the dead, and the man who could not be burnt. You really are a god.” Tormund commented. Jon was still in shock, but he knew the truth behind his immunity. He held a blank expression as he used his left arm to gently feel the parts of his body that should be burnt. Nothing was. Not a single piece of skin was scarred by the fire. He inhaled shakily, and began to come out of shock as he stroked his own face.

He refused eye contact with Tormund and the others, as he slowly stood from a kneeling position. He reluctantly looked up after a few moments, and saw the awe in their eyes. The pure belief they held that Jon really was something more than human. Is this what Daenerys felt like every day of her life? Is this how it felt to have others follow you out of pure devotion and faith in the impossible? He found himself looking for some semblance of normalcy in this absurd situation. And what could be more normal than thinking of the one other person who must’ve shared the feeling he had right now. The feeling of dragon blood coursing through his veins, repelling any damage from flame with an iron shield. He could feel it, with every beat of his heart, a heat emanating from inside his body which protected him from the danger of fire. How he never truly noticed it until now, was beyond him, but that was besides the point.

Jon wanted to yell, and scream, and hide from the other wildings, hide from his own identity. He wished to go back to being an unwanted bastard, rather than the unfamiliar dragon-rider Targaryen he was now. He cringed with every heartbeat, as it made the feeling in his blood more intense, the fire behind his eyes burn brighter. No. He was ice, cold and calculating and reserved, a child of the North. He couldn’t possess this red hot fury and pure power, which had driven Dany to do unthinkable things. He turned around and walked away, and kept walking until he fell to his hands and knees once more.

He called out from pure disbelief. The dragon riding somehow didn’t dig as deep as this did. It didn’t shake his foundations to the core in the same way this did. He felt like a completely different person, and Gods, that was terrifying. He panted and thought about how amazing it felt to bond with a dragon. How invigorated he felt riding one, how it felt like he had finally satisfied a part of himself he didn’t even know he had. But this didn’t scratch any unknown itch; all it did was strike one final blow to his already crumbling identity.

In all his self-reflection, he barely noticed how cold his hands were getting. When he fell to his knees, he’d plunged his hands into the snow and he still hadn’t removed them. Even with thick gloves on, the cold soaked through and onto his fingers, and he sat up to subside the feeling. He half walked, half stumbled to a nearby flat rock, and sat down in defeat. He closed his eyes and did everything he could to ignore the fire in his blood, the ultimate feeling of being a Targaryen. The last Targaryen. The world spun, and Jon Snow barely held on anymore.

He didn’t know how much time passed before someone crunched through the snow and sat on the rock next to him. He kept his eyes closed, but knew it had to be Tormund.

“It isn’t every day you see a man walk away from a fire with no burns.” He commented. Jon still kept his eyes shut, not really knowing what to say to his–rightfully–confused friend.

“You didn’t seem to know that you could do that.” Tormund added. Jon laughed out of irony and self-pity.

“No, I most certainly did not.” Jon remarked, not only to his friend but also himself; he never even imagined that being a Targaryen came with…this. Tormund didn’t speak, as if he was waiting for an explanation. Jon sighed, mulling over if he should bother explaining, but decided that, to hell with it, and chose the short version.

“While we were fighting down south, a member of the Night's Watch told me something about my parents. My real parents. That information had significance in the Seven Kingdoms, but also for my identity.” Jon paused. “I’m not who I thought I was. I don’t think I even know who I am anymore.” His words sounded lost, which couldn’t be more true.

Tormund considered what Jon said for a moment.“If you didn’t know that you wouldn’t be burnt, then why did you jump forward and push that wagon into the water?” The wilding questioned.

Jon hadn’t thought about that at all. He’d been so wrapped up in processing his new Targaryen ability that he hadn’t even acknowledged what had caused it.

“Because….I knew that I needed to save the people around us.” He spoke slowly, remembering the moment as if it was playing over and over again in his head.

“By sacrificing yourself.” Tormund looked at Jon, who had since opened his eyes, but wasn’t making eye contact. “It’s heroic. And exactly what the Jon Snow I know would do.” He said, and Jon began to understand. He slowly looked towards the wilding.

“_You_ may be struggling with who you are Jon Snow. But to me, you’re still the same man at heart as you always have been.” He emphasized. “Whether you can walk through fire or not.”

Tormund smiled that same childish smile, and grabbed Jon into a bear hug. Jon couldn’t help the grin that spread across his face, as the warmth in his blood faded and all that was left was the brisk Northern air.


	3. What is Done is Done

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The aftermath.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies for the many months hiatus. The ridiculous amount of free time i have resulted in actually writing a version of this chapter I'm mildly satisfied with. So here it is. Featuring two OC's, which i was thinking of tagging but since they're not central characters, i figured to hell with it. 
> 
> On another note, I actually have a definitive answer for how many chapters this is going to be, so that may possibly speed up how frequent I update. I won't make any promises though, just know that I am thinking about this story much more than I was the past few months. As always, thank you for kudos and comments. Cheers!

Jon returned to the group with Tormund and slid away to solitude at his own camp. He took care to avoid the stares and whispers of the other free folk, not wanting to be dragged into any more explanations. Even if he did, the meaning of a Targaryen would be lost to most of these people. They’d never encountered one until a few months ago, and even _he _didn’t know of any…qualities possessed by dragon riders until tonight. It’s not like Dany ever told him–

Nope. Now was not the time to wallow in the past; not right now. Later maybe, when he had more sense of privacy. But not now, with the multitudes of prying eyes from unsettled people. He practically crumbled onto the ground by his pack and sword, and made and attempt to fall asleep, burying his feelings in dreams. 

The next day was full of slow trudging through snow, worried and tired men and women dragging their feet along, clutching onto hopes of prosperity. Jon lead the group, as he had these past few weeks; Tormund to his left and Ghost a few paces behind. They rode silently, Jon gazing out among the endless snow. He heard a horse approaching and turned to see one of the Night’s Watchman who’d accompanied him.

His name was Daris Manning; nephew of the Lord of Manning, a minor house in the Crownlands. Jon only knew this because he’d asked about his past before they’d ventured off from Castle Black. Daris had been tightlipped about his reasoning for joining the Nights Watch, and Jon didn’t recognize him from his time serving before; the man had joined after he left with Sansa to defeat the Boltons. 

Whatever the cause for him coming North, Jon still found the man trustworthy. He was quick witted, confident and rather curious; he also seemed to hold some respect for Jon, as seen by his behavior when discussing daily problems and the like. Daris trotted up next to him, petting his own horse on the side of the neck. 

“Lord Commander.” Daris remarked. Jon huffed out a quick laugh. 

“I’m not Lord Commander anymore. Jon is fine.” He held a small grin, and Daris returned with his own. 

“Fine then. Jon.” He corrected. Daris hesitated, and Jon looked over when the man didn’t continue talking. Daris’s expression was unreadable; he seemed neutral, but kept looking up and down, as if he was scanning Jon for…something. He squinted slightly, and opened his mouth as if to speak. However, he shut it again, and turned back forward. 

Jon practically rolled his eyes. “Do you have a question, Manning?” He slyly looked at the man, who had pressed his lips into a thin line. Daris sharply inhaled, as if to steady himself. 

“My mother. She told me stories when I was a boy.” He spoke slowly. Jon furrowed his brow.

“About many things. Spirits, sea monsters, ice spiders.” Daris looked at Jon. “White walkers and dragons.” He paused, and Jon held his gaze. 

“Evidently, some of those things aren’t stories anymore.” The man finished. Jon gave him a half smile, and Daris seemed to laugh weakly; it was more ironic that humorous.

“She…She also told me about the Targaryens.” Jon’s soft smile dropped from his face, and he suddenly felt queasy. He turned back to the horse, sensing where this was going. He wondered if he should stop Daris, before the conversation lead to an explanation Jon didn’t really want to give. 

“Daris…” He started.

“You know what I’m about to say. Last night wasn’t random.” Jon regrettably turned back towards the younger watchman. “Not just anyone can walk away from fire.” Daris insisted, his eyes begging for an answer to his implied question. 

He turned over his options in his mind. On the one hand, telling Daris everything would be personal and revealing and might lead to some discussion about a certain crown Jon had all but abdicated. That really wasn’t what he needed; someone reminding him of the events that’d transpired the past few months.

On the other hand, Jon would have someone to confess in who could understand his struggle in a way the free folk never could. It’d be a relief, to say the least. But he didn’t know Daris well enough to treat him as someone he’d be willing to be so vulnerable around. Maybe…maybe one day. But not today. Today, he’d quell his suspicions with something simple, a simple lie to cover the complex reality that was his identity. It was his only choice. 

“It’s a long story.” He responded, hesitantly. 

“Shorten it.” Daris encouraged, prodding Jon more. He sighed. 

“My father. My…” His words caught in his throat. “My real father. He had Targaryen heritage. I didn’t know until some months ago.” He finished. That was all the information he was willing to divulge now. Enough to keep Daris from asking too many questions. 

“So you didn’t–”

“No.” Jon cut him off. “I did not know.” His gaze fell to his arm, where there should be a burn. Daris’s eyes followed his own. He looked back up at him. 

“The Dragon Queen.” Daris said, and Jon Snow’s heart sank. “They say you killed her.”Jon didn’t even want to know who _they _were. He stared daggers into Daris’ eyes, and carefully thought of his response. He was doing everything to not loose his grip on neutrality. 

“Was she your family?” Daris questioned. Jon felt as if the knife wounds in his chest were bursting with pain all over again. His blood seared hot, the Targaryen part of himself rising up as he contemplated Daenerys. Family. She was, in more ways than one. He killed his own blood. 

Jon’s eye’s tore away from Daris, and he exhaled softly, holding back his emotions. He could feel his heart boiling, eating him up inside, but he couldn’t break down now. Not here. He clenched his eyes shut and steadied himself, before looking back up at Daris. 

“Like I said. It’s a long story.” Jon said coldly. He wondered how much of his struggle Daris was able to see, how much of the pain he’d done his best to bury had surfaced and was now contributing to the poor man’s curiosity. Daris seemed to want to ask more questions, but Jon’s tone served as direct indication: _drop it_. 

His fellow watchman gave him a lopsided smile, nodded and turned back around to rejoin with the rest of the group. 

========================================================================================

A few days passed. They reached the eastern shore quicker than expected, and began setting up camp for a few weeks. After meetings with groups of representatives, they agreed on a plan. They would send out groups of 4 rangers to the North and South, scouring the coast for the best land to culture and build on. Although they had dwindled since departing Castle Black, there were still at least a few hundred among them; enough to where Jon wanted to be certain they could sustain everyone for longer than 2 or 3 months. 

They left the following morning, all on horseback. Daris Manning and the other Nights Watchmen acted as leaders of each, and Jon made them swear to do everything in their power to make sure everyone returned alive and unharmed. It wasn’t a particularly dangerous mission, but Jon reminded the men that anything could happen. 

Once the rangers left, they began to settle in. Staking down tents, setting up water supplies, corralling their livestock into pens to be dealt with once there was a better system of organization. People worked constantly; setting up a new society wasn’t easy work, and Jon made sure that everyone was putting in their part. 

He continuously went out on hunting expeditions, along with Tormund and a few other free folk he’d befriended. They were trying to set up a store of food to live off of until better land conditions, whether through temperature or relocation, allowed for sustainable farming. Animals were scarce; they barely returned with enough kills for 10 or so people every day. Jon just hoped that the free folk were as resourceful as they’d always been, and would manage for now. 

The area they were set up to had a dense forest adjacent; tall, looming trees that blocked out any sunlight while under their branches. The free folk said that these trees were particularly known for the way the creaked and moaned will bending in the wind. A few of the older men he’d talked to were unsettled about living near the forest, out of superstition. The free folk were, if nothing else, cautious. 

They were venturing back through the trees when Jons foot caught on something on the ground, causing him to stumble and nearly fall. He leaned down to inspect and found a rock pointing up out of the snow. Digging near it revealed that the snow surrounding it wasn’t very deep, and when he looked around at other areas of ground, he noticed more and more debris peeking through the snow. 

It was melting. Quickly. 

He’d never been certain as to if the snow ever left the ground north of the wall. But, maybe with the Night King dead, their dreams of creating a sustainable community would not be buried under piles of wet, cold snow. Jon smiled to himself and continued back to the tents. 

They reached camp shortly before sunset. People were starting to gather around fires to eat, in groups of 10 or so. Jon headed over to his tent and found a few of the neighboring free folk set up by a large pit fire. They were sat on logs or other materials, chatting and eating their dinner. Jon threw his sword down by his tent, and pulled out some air dried meat he’d made many weeks ago. He walked over to join the rest of the group, mostly for sake of staying warm near the fire. 

Jon remained quiet as the conversation flurried about. Tormund had joined soon after, and the ginger was making loud jokes with a few men and women near him. Jon chuckled to himself and continued eating.

He’d glanced to his right a few times, repeatedly noticing one of the men staring him down. Jon pretended not to notice the first two times, but the third time he made eye contact with him. He looked down and cleared his throat, as if to question what his intentions were.

The older man, who was wearing a tattered coat and very worn boots stood from his seat. He walked across the circle approaching Jon, looking very angry but also…wary. He stood in front of Jon, who stood to meet his eyes better. To no avail, however, as this man was practically a foot taller than him. 

Conversation had quieted at the incoming confrontation; the only immediate sound was the crackling of the loud fire, as Jon and the wildling stared each other down. Jon noticed Tormund steady himself to jump up, if necessary. 

“You. Crow.” His voice was a deep gravel. “Are we supposed to pretend like we didn’t witness what happened last night?” He questioned angrily. Jon’s stare broke, and he looked off to the side, almost ashamed.

“You continue to defy the order of things. We all know it. Tales of your resurrection are plenty, and now suddenly you can’t be burnt by flame.” He declared, still planted on the ground, unmoving. Jon wasn’t sure how to defend himself just yet. 

“No one man should have all that power.” He shook his head as he spoke, and walked even closer to Jon. “Especially not one responsible for almost wiping all us out.” He sneered. 

“Ormyr!” A woman fiercely stood up and scolded the wildling. He turned towards her and gave a forced huff, before returning his glare back at Jon. He hadn’t spoken one word this whole time, mostly because he didn’t have a good response to the wildling’s accusations. 

Ormyr shoved past Jon, leaving the group in an uncomfortable silence. Jon tried to avoid the stares of the other men and women, but he felt his face heat up from embarrassment. He stole a look of acknowledgment at Tormund and shuffled off. 

He headed over to a clearing, where Ghost was digging at snow; presumably hunting some small creature. The dog wagged his tail as Jon approached and he stroked his back and stared at the horizon. The sun was setting, making the fires burning around him brighter and more prominent. 

He spotted the woman who’d intervened earlier walking over toward him. She wore the same tattered and shabby coat and trousers as the man before, except her hood was intact. It was pulled over her head, so much so her jet black hair barely peeked out by the sides of her face. She smiled slightly at Jon as she approached. 

“I am sorry for Ormyr; out of all my brothers, he is the most superstitious. He is also cautious around those he doesn’t know well.” The woman apologetically explained. Jon returned with his own small smile. 

“I’m certain he’s still a fine man to have as family.” He reassured. 

“Oh no. We all hate him.” She answered quickly. Jon snorted, and the woman uncrossed her arms. 

“I’m Igne.” She said. Jon paused before introducing himself. 

“I suppose you already know who I am.” 

“All of us know who you are Jon Snow. You’re not subtle, if last night proved anything.” She commented. Jon’s smile fell at the mention of the fire. 

“It’s alright. I don’t question when the Old Gods grant a man gifts.” Igne remarked. Jon wanted to ask about the nature of her beliefs, but decided it was best left untouched for now. 

“Even before then, you have become quite the figurehead. Leading the free folk to better land, and all.” She explained. Jon looked down again. 

“What’s left of them.” They stood in silence for a moment before Jon continued. 

“Your brother is right. In blaming me for killing most of your people. I asked you to participate in a fight that wasn’t your own.” He said regretfully. “It wasn’t right.” 

Igne sighed. “You can’t change the past Jon Snow. No matter how much you wish.” She looked out towards the sun, which was just about beneath the horizon. “What is done is done.” 

Oh, how he wished that wasn’t the truth. 

A few minutes passed, as they watched the sun sink lower and lower, until all that remained was a soft orange glow among the mountains. Igne looked at him, intrigued. 

“Why did you come join us? Beyond your wall?” She questioned. Jon hesitated, rolling over his answer in his head. At his pause, Igne continued.

“Not many southern men choose to live where the cold will freeze your balls off.” She stated. 

“I’m not a southern man.” He responded quickly. 

“I’ve gathered that.” She looked him up and down. “You’re more like us than I expected.” 

At her remark, Jon looked over curiously. He wondered what she meant by that. She turned back towards the horizon, implying she wouldn’t answer the question he wanted to ask. 

“My great uncle.” She said, changing the subject, despite Jon never answering her initial question. “He’s sick from the travel. He’s older and he’s never been the type to rest when he needs it.” Her demeanor changed from her relaxed state to high strung worry. 

“There’s a root which when strained as a drink can help heal him. Those in my clan used it when we all got sick as kids. I believe it to be in the forest.” He understood her implied request. 

“I’ll go out with a search group tomorrow morning. Any resource we can get.” He insisted. Igne seemed to release some of her tension. 

“Thank you.” She said, and they watched as the orange glow of the sun fade into darkness. 

========================================================================================

At the crack of dawn, Jon had woken to gather some free folk willing to search the forest. Igne had given him a description of the tree the root belonged too. Dark colored bark with pale yellow rings encircling the base and continuing onto the root itself. The tree’s wood was also quite brittle, so if they had a root that broke easily, it was likely the correct one. 

They walked the forest for hours; searching for a specific plant species on horseback seemed counterintuitive. There were only 15 or so of them, so finding the correct tree was bound to take hours. They didn’t find it on the first day, and the second day had resulted in half the group staying at camp to attend to their families. 

Jon was digging at the base of his millionth tree, when he heard Laili call out that she found something. They all rushed over to find a looming, practically black tree, with speckled but clearly yellow rings along the base of the trunk. Jon dug up more snow to search for an exposed root. 

2 hours later they’d returned to the center of camp, lugging a rather large tree root. He found Igne’s tent and stepped inside, only to see her, her brother and four other family members huddled around a man lying on a blanket. They held their heads and stood in silence, presumably praying of some sort. Jon stole a glance at the man on the ground, and saw a cloth had been draped on his face. He shuffled back outside the tent and waited patiently.

A few minutes later, the other wildlings filed out. Igne never exited, so Jon slowly entered the tent again, clutching sword to keep it from making much noise. Igne was kneeled by her uncle now, head drooped, hands folded on her lap. Jon stood stoically, waiting for the right moment to speak. 

She finally looked up at him, and Jon was surprised to see no tears. She held no expression, and glanced down at the root in his hand. 

“Bring it to the next representative gathering. Find someone else who can use it.” Her voice was more flat than normal, shadows caused by a nearby torch dancing along her face. Jon wanted to say something to comfort her, anything other than remaining silent. But he couldn’t think. Couldn’t form a coherent thought to ease her, other than a pitiful “I’m sorry”. So he merely nodded slightly, and left in a rush. 

As he trudged through wet dirt back towards his tent, he wondered how much guilt a man could take before their soul burnt out from shame. 


	4. Emptiness is Not a Curse, But Rather an Obstacle

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The group finds something worrying and Jon broods some more.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Aahh sorry it's been taking me so long to update, i just struggle to get these chapters to a point where i'm actually satisfied with them. This chapter is a little more filler (and a bit shorter) than I expected it to be which is a lil sad but oh well. It also features some very /very/ mild violent-esque stuff (if you could even call it that). It's just descriptions of a dead body, and as GoT goes, I think it's fair to call it mild. Just thought i'd include a preface here ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯
> 
> I do appreciate all the kudos and comments, as anyone would, so thank y'all so much for those. As always enjoy, and cheers!

A few days past following the incident with the healing root. Jon and the others had continued to plant the seeds of a growing community; it was slow, but there was noticeable progress by now. Organized groups of people mutually supporting one another, sharing resources, and other small details which proved to be the exact type of motivation they all needed. People were out of their tents more, helping and socializing. It felt hopeful. 

Jon, of course, continued to be the mediator and go-to problem solver for most issues. Whose wood is whose, how much water is okay to store per household, etcetera etcetera. He wanted to say he grew weary of it all, but he never really did. Participating, aiding those around him gave him strength, and it gave him something else to focus on, rather than mulling over his own self-hatred alone in his tent. He tried that. Tormund dragged him out within the first hour to help better windproof a man’s shelter.

This was slowly becoming his new life, and he certainly wasn’t mad about it. It was just…strange, not constantly worrying about the next enemy to fight or having the unforgiving threat of war hanging above his head. Sure, he still found himself responsible for the safety of innocents, as he always was, but he could protect them without being a warrior. He didn’t have to battle any incoming army, dead or otherwise, and he didn’t have to negotiate with violent leaders in order to survive. He found himself refreshed, to say the least.

Still, he wasn’t entirely free of his past. It would never truly leave him alone. 

He found himself dreaming once more. It was Drogon, again, but it wasn’t exactly like his prior experience; it wasn’t as vibrant or intense. More subtle, if hyper realistic dreams about Daenerys’ dragon could be labeled as subtle. 

This time, the dragon was flying through the clouds. He grumbled lowly, and flapped his wings, sending a shudder through Jon’s mind. The dragon nosedived, and made a beeline towards the ground beneath him. Jon didn’t recognize the area he was in; arid looking land, sparse of plants and animal life. Drogon thudded down on the ground, and Jon saw that the dragon had landed right in front of a large wagon being pulled by horses. The steeds cried out, and took off, leaving the wagon stranded in the desert, facing down the ferocious beast. 

Jon could hear Drogon growl, as an incredibly frightened looking man exited the wagon. His eyes were locked onto the looming reptile in front of him, and he trembled with the fear of a small child. Jon couldn’t hear him, but the stranger seemed to speak; pleading maybe? But Drogon didn’t seem to care, as he reared his neck. Jon recognized this motion, and quickly realized what was about to happen. 

The man took off in the other direction, and Drogon savagely burnt him to a crisp. Jon could tell he was angry, strangely enough. What the dragon was enraged about, though, remained lost to him. He could feel the heat of the desert, along with the heat of the fire. It was too real, for it to all be a dream. Jon just didn’t know what it meant. 

The dragon finished off his fury, and kicked over the wagon with his claw. Suddenly, he aggressively turned his head away from the destruction. He turned and faced Jon, somehow making direct eye contact with him. He felt nauseous, as the dragon snarled, baring his teeth. With that terrifying development, Jon yelled, startling himself from his dream. He sat up quickly, panting heavily. 

He scanned his environment, finding nothing out of the ordinary. He was alone, in the dark, on a thin leather cloth which he’d been using as his sleeping space. There was a faint sound of crackling fire outside, but no audible voices. Jon had no idea how early or late it was; the dream (if it even was that) had left him incredibly disoriented. He rubbed his hands over his face, wishing to forget it all. 

The dream stuck in his mind the whole morning. Jon silently went through his routine, dressing, eating with a few others, sitting in on a daily meeting. He kept flashing back to the beast, staring him down, eyes burning through his skull and into his heart. Jon practically shuddered every time the image came to him. 

He’d barely processed his own movements, before he was riding out with Tormund and a few others once more to look for food. Ghost sniffed around in the snow, while he heard his free folk friends laughing loudly at something behind him. Jon…wished he could join. Just maybe, have a moment where everything that caused his moods to be dour could be forgotten. Laugh, smile, drink himself into an endless slumber, like Tormund enjoyed doing. It was much simpler than mentally kicking himself over and over again, for things he could never change. 

Jon was rustled from his thoughts by yelling (it seemed to be the staple these days). An older member of their group, a man named Envale, was shouting about a dog. No, a wolf, actually, as Jon realized when he approached him to find Ghost with his face buried in snow. 

“What’s going on?” Jon questioned. 

“This beast a’ yours started yappin’ all about. He kept diggin’ at the snow, whinin’ and whimperin’. Think he found somethin’ he don’t like.” Envale answered, as he leaned an arm against a tree. This behavior was odd for his dire wolf; Ghost was so named for the fact he almost never made a sound. 

Except that was exactly what he was doing. The wolf pulled his head from the snow abruptly, and growled at the ground. A shiver went up Jon’s spine to see him act like this; It certainly wasn’t normal. Ghost then started digging at the hole he’d already made, flinging snow around. Their group merely watched and waited to see what he’d dig up. 

A moment passed, and Ghost stopped his digging and started pawing instead. Jon moved around to the side of his wolf to see what exactly he’d dug up. Ghost whined again, and backed up, away from his rushed hole. Jon turned and gave Tormund a look mixed with confusion and worry. The redhead seemed to agree, eyebrows knit together in contemplation. 

“Bad feeling.” He heard Tormund say quietly, and Jon turned his attention back towards the deep hole of snow. There did seem to be something just under it, a small lump which ghost had purposefully left buried. Jon reached into the hole, and brushed the snow from whatever his wolf had found. It felt spherical and hard, almost like a rock, but more…hollow. 

He finally got enough snow away to see what he was dealing with. A slightly oblong, dark gray rock, about the size of two fists next to each other. Jon grabbed it and felt around to try and lift it, before a sudden horror seized his heart and he jumped back in fear. 

Not a rock. A skull. He’d just plunged his fingers into empty eye sockets. 

After an hour more of unearthing, removing about a half a foot of snow, they had indeed discovered a decaying body. It was only partially withered, tattered pieces of flesh sealed against exposed and rotting bone. Jon noticed it still had thin hair at the scalp and dried blood around open wounds along its midsection. Its left arm was completely missing, nowhere in sight even after more digging. The spectacle was violent and quite unsettling, which created enough cause for half of their hunting party to leave, if for no simpler reason than the smell. It was repulsive, that was true, but he knew that wasn’t the real reason the free folk ran. 

Superstition ran through the veins of this community, Jon had learned that better than ever after these past few weeks. So to discover a body, this far north, when all of them should’ve been last seen down at Winterfell was…disconcerting to many. Even Jon admitted to himself that it was unnerving. He’d witness the Night King raise every single dead body at Hardhome to join his army of demons. So why would one ever be found so far from its master? 

Maybe it’d gotten buried under the snow somehow and was unable to escape. Maybe it was trampled by its fellow wights and lost the ability to reliably fight. Maybe the hold the Night King held over the dead simply wore off before it was ever able to make it south of the Wall. Too many possibilities, and not a single answer in sight. 

Once they’d managed to lift it from the ground and onto a wagon, they all started the trek back to camp. Jon walked close behind the men pulling the body, Tormund silently walking next to him. 

“We need to burn it.” Tormund said. 

“Aye. I was thinking the same thing.” He wasn’t sure if their reason for burning the body was out of habit, respect or an innate fear that this _thing _might wake up and bring back all the nightmares they thought they were rid of. 

When they reached camp, Jon had a hard time finding a person who wasn’t staring them down. It was dead silent, save the crackling of a few fires, and Jon made eye contact with a few people as they walked towards a large clearing. Mixtures of intense fear, confusion, and scarring memories flashed across all of their faces, and Jon wondered if his stoicism was betraying him; if they could tell he was just as frightened as they were. Word had spread quickly of the un-risen corpse, and the pyre that’d been set up was crowded around with people. 

Tormund and Jon supervised as a few men cautiously lifted the body onto the pyre. Jon noticed that, as soon as the transferring was done with, one of the men hurried off and dunked his hands into a bucket of water. Another threw the gloves he was wearing into the pyre, leaving it to burn once it was lit. 

Everyone receded to the crowd, standing in a circle around the pile, as Jon and two other men sparked torches alit. They tossed them into the base of the wood pile, and the fire spread quickly. Jon backed up, but could still feel the heat singeing his face. He thought of the cremation after the Battle of Winterfell and shuddered. One body was preferable to the thousands they’d burned then. 

Moments passed and the fire had completely overtaken the entire pyre. Wood seized and cracked under the heat, and the cool winds blew smoke and flames upwards. They’d taken care to set the fire in a clearing which was downwind from their camp; the last problem they needed was the fire burning up the little resources they had.

Everyone remained quiet, as the fire licked around the body. Jon could see through the flames as the body began to catch and scorch. He thought it was a trick of the light or his eyes playing games on him when he caught sight of movement from it. He squinted, focusing his vision more, trying to see if what he saw was imaginary or simply a piece of wood collapsing. A few seconds more and, as clear as day– 

The foot twitched. 

His hand flew to the hilt of Longclaw, and he stayed locked onto the body. His sudden movements got the attention of one of the men near him, who followed Jon’s eyes. Tense seconds passed and the body’s foot twitched again, bending unnaturally inward. The man yelped, and took off running. 

At the commotion, people began to stir and back away. Only Jon and those nearest him would have a good view of the body’s movement, so everyone mostly seemed confused. Tormund walked up to Jon; he responded by pointing. 

“Watch.” He instructed. He could feel his heart racing in his ears, and he held his breath as steady as he could. They waited a moment. Again, the foot moved, but this time from the ankle, bending towards them. And when it started moving, it didn’t stop. Jon could see the entire lower leg moving erratically from side to side.

“Fuck.” Tormund whispered, and unsheathed his sword. Jon followed in suit, and the reality of the situation began to dawn on everyone around them. People screamed out and ran back towards their tents, while others merely retreated from fear but left their eyes glued to the fire. 

Jon and Tormund slowly advanced with their weapons out. The body had not stopped moving, and while it wasn’t moving much, it was clear that it wasn’t just remnants of the corpse reacting to flame. He’d seen many bodies burn over the years, and there were times among those when the fire would cause a corpse to let out one last movement of life before fully succumbing to death. This was not the case. 

The leg had now begun moving in the thigh area, flopping about as if controlled by puppet strings. The knee and shin might as well have been wood, only reacting to the movement instead of twitching on its own. They’d gotten close enough to where Jon could poke his sword into the flames if he wanted. Tormund and him shared a cautious look as the body’s leg moved side to side. 

The next 30 or so seconds felt like years. They waited for it to sit up, to lunge at them, screech or scream. Anything other than baseless movement. Jon had barely begun to contemplate how this was possible, with the Night King killed, before he heard the sound of squealing. 

“Tormund.” He called out, even though he knew his friend was being as vigilant as he was. They steadied themselves, swords held in defensive positions. Waited. And…

“Wait.” Jon’s shoulders fell, his tenseness releasing slightly. The squealing wasn’t what he had grown accustomed to hearing from the wights. It was quieter and more…animalistic; He could barely hear it over the roaring of the flames. It sounded like a rodent, really, and the sound wasn’t coming from the head but where the twitching was. 

A moment later, the twitching subsided, and Jon watched as an incredibly small rat crawled from one of the gaping holes in the corpse’s torso. He could see it squealing as it scrambled over the wood, and Jon couldn’t stop himself from exhaling every bit of air in his lungs. 

The rat must’ve been burrowed into the foot of the body, and attempted to leave when the heat of the fire began to melt its home. The animal itself was already burnt beyond belief, and Jon watched as it dropped between planks of wood and fell victim to the fire. He closed his eyes and calmed his breathing as much as possible. Tormund similarly hung his head, washing away his anxiousness as he placed a hand on Jon’s shoulder. 

They both sheathed their swords, and following that scare, people began to filter out. They’d all had their worries abated seeing the body burn up, and had no need to wait for the entire pyre to crisp into ash. The last remaining corpse beyond the wall was no longer a threat, and only Jon and a few others hung back to wait for the wood to fizzle out. 

Night approached soon after. Jon had pulled over a thick log to sit on as he used the light of the fire to sharpen his sword. The other men had either left to eat dinner or fallen asleep in their seats. Jon found he didn’t have much of an appetite and enjoyed the bit of solitude he had by the fire. So he stayed, rather than going to get food. 

The pyre was now mostly ash, with just a few logs in the center burning up to make a fire no bigger than a large bird. The bones of the body were presumably buried under the wood and ash since he couldn’t easily see them. Ghost slept beside him as Jon grazed a stone along his blade. He was surprised neither his wolf nor the two men sleeping 10 feet from him had awoken from the routine _ching_ that came from Longclaw every few seconds. The fire popped and Jon watched as embers floated up into the dark sky. 

He felt an idea tickling at the back of his mind as he thought about the night of the wagon fire. He glanced up at the dying flame. _Fire cannot kill a dragon. _He placed his sword on the ground and rubbed his hands together nervously. Images of dragonfire and Daenerys flooded his thoughts with the force of a wave, and he bounced his knee up and down. His impulse and morbid curiosity got the better of his judgement and he stood up slowly. 

Jon was practically screaming at himself to stop. Urging his body to turn around and run far, far away from this. He knew already. He knew that he wouldn’t be burnt, he had no reason to do this, to try again for no cause other than a type of self-actualization. And yet he still walked up to the fire.

He felt empty. He’d felt this way for most of his life. No real roots or past, just an unwanted, illegitimate mistake that lead to 17 years of resentment and loathing. He did every single thing he could to escape the chains of having the last name “Snow”, and…well it pretty much worked. The Night’s Watch was where he truly felt like he’d prevailed against himself, and he didn’t need the reassurance that came from having a concrete identity because he’d built his own. And yet, as soon as his true past came to light, the tower he’d forged crumbled into rubble, and he was back where he started in Winterfell. But it was worse; Because now he had regrets. 

So he did the only thing that would force his mind to confront his own reality instead of hiding from it or burying it under responsibility. Jon Snow, Bastard of Winterfell, Former King of the North, and exiled rightful King of Westeros kneeled down and plunged his hand into a bonfire. 

And immediately pulled it out. 

It was simple reflex. Jon’s body took over control from his mind, and removed his hand from the fire. He hadn’t even processed whether he felt anything, any searing hot heat before his muscles convulsed and his arm retracted. But he slowly held his hand out and–just as he expected, just as he _knew_ as much as he didn’t want to–there were no burns. Not a single effect of the fire to be found. Sure as he knelt there, he could feel the heat radiating from it. But, it wasn’t enough to burn him. 

This time, he slowly brought his hand towards it. It felt as if the heat had hit a plateau, where it got to a point where it was hot, but wouldn’t be enough to injure him. He felt the fire dance along his skin, licking around his wrist and fingers. Nothing burned, bubbled, or showed any indication of scorching from the flame. Jon would think it was incredible if he wasn’t so agitated. 

“Jon.” He was startled by a voice calling his name from behind. He quickly pulled his hand back and crossed his arms as he turned and stood up. Tormund had come to check on him; when Jon made eye contact, the wildling was squinting slightly. Jon pressed his lips into a thin line, and avoided his stare. Tormund knew. He knew exactly what had just happened. 

“Wanted to know if you were planning on eating at all.” The redhead questioned. He tiptoed around the elephant in the room, and Jon couldn’t be more grateful; the last thing he wanted was to unload on his friend again.

“Yeah. I’ll join in a minute.” Jon mumbled with a weak smile. Tormund held his stare for a stretch longer than seemed normal before returning a smile and walking back to camp. Jon stood up, wiped his unburnt hand on his trousers as if to rid it of any evidence, and traipsed over to his regular group of dinner folk. 

He left all thoughts of Targaryens and White Walkers to burn along with the remaining embers of the pyre, and sat down to enjoy his meal. 


	5. A Fleeting Moment of Hope

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The free folk find their new home and Jon learns (and is reminded) of some things on the journey there.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey y'all. Look, it took me less than a month to get a new chapter up! Yay..... *sigh*. At the very least this chapter is rather long compared to the other ones so maybe it makes up for it?? Anyway, i really like how the first two sections came out and i am not a fan of the last, so if it's a little wonky then i apologize, i'm still an amateur at this. Hope everyone enjoys, and as usual thank you for comments/kudos and the like. Cheers!

“Are you sure? There weren’t any at all?” Jon emphasized.

“None. Anything we came across was either dried up or contaminated. Nothing fresh enough to rely on.” The Night Watchmen reported. Jon gave a heavy sigh and crossed out an area from their poorly drawn map. No one had thought to bring a map of the east coast of Northern Westeros, so they were relying on the collective memory of the wildlings as their information on the region.

“Maybe if we had searched more inland, there would’ve been a better water source.” Another man piped up.

“No. It’s too mountainous in that area. Even if there were a river or lake, there would be no land to grow on or animals to find, let alone room to cultivate them. We need soil, not rock.” Jon pointed out. Everyone nodded and grumbled in agreement.

“Manning, please give us some good news.” Jon said exasperatedly. The younger man smirked slightly.

“If I'd known everyone else’s searches were that unfortunate, I would’ve volunteered to go first.” Daris remarked slyly, a grin pulling at the corners of his mouth. Jon stood up from his leaned over position and eagerly awaited.

The Watchmen walked over to their map and took off his glove. He pointed to an inlet along the coast further north from their current camp.

“There’s fresh, rich soil along this bay, if you dig deep enough under the snow. Although I suspect that won’t be much of an issue in the coming months.” He dragged his finger along the paper about five centimeters from the coastline.

“There’s a mountain range here. Because of the recent seasonal changes, the snow is melting and pooling right around the base, about a mile or so from the coast. It was small when we left it, but I wouldn’t be surprised if it creates more than enough freshwater for everyone in the coming weeks.” Daris looked up at Jon as he reported back his findings. Jon could practically feel the weight lifting off of his and everyone else’s shoulders.

“And…to top it all off…” Daris held them in anticipation as he pointed back towards the coast, but further north a few centimeters.

“Hot springs. Tons of them. One of the mountains in the range must be the source, because we found dozens on the surface. And hot springs of course means–”

“Animals.” Jon cut in. Daris grinned even more.

“Right. We saw at least a pack of foxes and remarkably…caribou.” Tormund started guffawing at their good fortune, and Jon couldn’t help but crack a smile.

He took his charcoal piece and circled the area which Daris had pointed out.

“Manning, if I were paying you, I’d give you double for the month.” Jon stated, as he collapsed into a chair behind him.

“Aye sir, but alas, I suppose your rations for the week will have to suffice.” Daris responded jokingly. Everyone in the tent laughed along and Jon stood up to firmly shake his fellow Night Watchmen’s hand.

“How far is it?”

“It was eight days ride for the four of us. With this group, I imagine two weeks maybe.” Daris answered. Jon clapped him on the back and gave him a look that communicated _Thank you_ as insistently as possible. The younger man nodded in return and left; the searching parties trickled out as well, leaving only the 12 representatives they’d established. Plus Jon, making it 13.

“Well I presume we found our new stamping ground.” He picked up the paper and handed it to Jyra, the woman who’d organized the group of people to create the map.

“See if you can get those folk to make a more detailed version of this specific area. Knowing where the springs and other rivers are in advance would save us a lot of time.” Jyra nodded and left the tent.

He turned to another man to give instruction. “Start making preparations to organize resources into those to be transported and those left behind. We won’t need excessive building wood but we will need firewood for the journey.”

“Course. Boldar, you’re with me.” He said, and they left as well.

“Everyone else, resume your normal responsibilities and spread the word that we will be packing up and moving within…” He turned to Tormund for an estimate.

“Two days.” The redhead added. Jon pointed to indicate that his friend’s statement was accurate; it gave everyone enough time to collect their materials without rushing, while also not allowing for more resources to gather up that would then need to be lugged the long journey.

“Alright.” Jon’s tone indicated to everyone that their meeting was adjourned. The remaining men and women exited, leaving Tormund and Jon alone in the tent. The wildling walked towards him and stood over the impromptu desk they’d set up.

“Never seen a group of free folk so eager to listen to someone.” Tormund had his fists planted on the wood and was leaning over as he talked, slyly glancing up at Jon. The former Nights Watchmen crossed his arms, and contemplated their representatives as he peered through the flaps of the tent.

“I don’t quite understand why.” He made eye contact with Tormund. “I barely know what I’m doing.” He uttered.

“Pfff. If that’s true, you’re really good at faking it.” The wildling stood straight and peered at Jon with a _I’m not buying your bullshit_ look.

Jon closed his eyes and shook his head. “Believe me Tormund, if there’s anyone else willing to call the shots, I’d happily listen to their orders.”

“You know Jon Snow, for some reason I don’t believe you.” He persisted, before backing up out of the tent and Jon was left alone with his thoughts. Did he really not want to lead? Or should he take it as a sign that the free folk, the men and women known for never bending the knee, were listening to him, of all people. He shuddered, and extinguished all the torches in their tent before leaving to make preparations with the others.

========================================================================================

They’d been on the road for a week now, and things were going smoothly––mostly. There was an incident with a cart getting it’s wheel stuck in a ditch, and a man forgetting to check if a water tank was properly secured before transporting (it wasn’t).

But other than that. Smooth sailing, so far.

Jon rode on his horse along with the few dozen other people who actually had ones to ride. Most everyone walked on foot or rode in carts, but he did see a few horses tugging heavier loads. The upsides to being on horseback meant that he could move up and down through the crowd, checking on people and offering help to those who needed it. He had an elderly woman on the back of his horse for 3 days, before she finally insisted that she was up for walking again.

They, of course, had to make nightly stops to prevent people from getting exhausted. The perks of walking along the coast meant that the snow wasn’t as frustrating to trudge through. However sometimes the rocky terrain proved to be just as much of an issue. At least the sound of the ocean provided some comfort during the long days. 

It was the morning of the eighth day of their travels. Jon had fully sacrificed his horse to an older man and his young boy, who was ill with a fever. They rode a few meters ahead of him, and Jon kept catching the eye of the kid, who regularly turned around to smile at him. Tormund had also given his horse up, letting two young women ride on its back as he held the reins and directed them. They walked next to each other, kicking rocks, swapping stories–Tormund seemed to have an endless supply–and counting how many birds they saw flying above them.

“You’d think that for a man of his size, there was no possible way Gholjarr could be bested by this woman. But no! Alidir managed to grab his neck by her thighs and suffocate him until he yielded. It was fantastic!” Tormund raved. Jon laughed along.

“Maybe we should set up friendly brawls such as those you speak of. It might–”

“I will be undefeated.” Tormund interrupted. Jon grinned, but had no doubt that his friend was correct.

“Aye, I bet…” Jon trailed off, not finishing his statement; he was distracted by his shoulder seizing from pain. It stopped him in his tracks. He lifted his left arm across his torso and poked around the front and back of his shoulder. No indication of anything that would cause the type of ache he was feeling now.

Tormund noticed that Jon had stopped walking. He checked on the horse and made sure that the women on it would be fine without him to lead. People sidestepped Jon, as he was blocking the flow of traffic. He walked over to the side of their path as Tormund followed him.

“What is it?” The wildling asked. Jon craned his neck to get a better look.

“I’m not sure. My shoulder, it’s…I’m not sure.” He answered as he continued inspecting.

“Agh.” He yelled slightly, as another wave of sharp pain pierced just under his shoulder blade. Jon began to remove his coat, throwing it at Tormund who simply watched. With just a thin shirt on, the cold air sent a shiver through his body. But that didn’t subtract from the fiery throbbing he still felt in his shoulder.

“Let me look.” Tormund asserted, and Jon nodded, still holding a tense hand over the spot where he felt something. Before Tormund could even get a glance, Jon cried out as a wave of searing pain shot through the same spot on his lower shoulder blade. Tormund jumped back as if burnt, and Jon crumpled to his knees, fingers splayed out on his back.

“Jon!” A worried Tormund called. The pain was so specific, needle-point accurate. It almost felt like he caught an arrow to his back.

His muscles pulsated and he ground his teeth to alleviate some pain. Jon forced out a yell, as his shoulder got worse. His fingers on his right hand dug into his palm and Jon was sure that he’d drawn blood; he felt sweat drip down his forehead which was unnatural considering how little warmth he had right now. Tormund clutched Jon’s coat and waited helplessly, thinking that the situation would be worsened by extra intervention.

And suddenly, the pain was gone as if it were never there in the first place. He let out a weary breath, and hung his head as he panted. His arm dropped and his limbs felt as heavy as steel.

“Bloody hell.” He muttered.

“What the fuck was that?” Tormund practically demanded, as he draped Jon’s coat around his shoulders, before rushing in front to kneel and make eye contact with his friend.

Jon remained silent at his question. He hoped the wildling would brush it off as fatigue and not think Jon was refusing to answer. Because he was. Because once his head cleared, he realized he was pretty sure he knew what that pain was.

A few months ago, before he’d come North, before Kings Landing was destroyed, just after the Battle of Winterfell, he’d felt something like this. Daenerys had arrived in Dragonstone in preparation to fight Cersei, but was grossly ill-equipped to defend against the Greyjoy fleet. Jon later learned from Varys that Rhaegal had been killed by multiple scorpion bolts.

This event explained why, as he and the rest of the Northern army trekked south, he collapsed from an intense pain in his back and through his neck. His men were all perplexed, just as much as Jon was, but as soon as Varys told him of Rhaegal, the pieces fell into place easier than ever.

Which is why all he could do now was worry for Drogon’s safety.

He still had a hard time confronting his Targaryen bond with a dragon (or, he guessed dragon_s _now). It seemed too abstract to be real, but he knew it had to exist. He had no other reasoning for how he felt that day marching with his army, or why Rhaegal had accepted him as a rider so easily, even when Dany made a point of saying that not many Targaryens rode dragons.

It just…didn’t feel like him. Even though it felt like his soul was satisfied the moment he got on Rhaegal’s back, when he stepped back to think on it, it felt so foreign and odd. To connect with a _dragon_. To share pain and dreams.

He just needed some more time to come to terms. Get used to it, in the same way he got used to Ghost. So for now, he did his best to mask the reasons behind his unnatural pain from Tormund. Except, it didn’t seem to be working. At all.

Jon stood up slowly as Tormund walked right up to him; the redhead towered over him slightly, and he squinted down at him.

“You know what the fuck that was. What was it?” He repeated the question. Jon never realized how easily Tormund could read him; Maybe he was just a bad liar.

They held their staring contest for a moment before Jon shuffled out of the way, carefully putting his coat back on.

“It’s nothing.” He huffed. Tormund blew a raspberry mockingly.

“How are you so shit at hiding things?” The wilding called from behind him, and he could hear a bit of humor in his voice. Jon didn’t turn around. He just kept walking, hoping Tormund would forget all about this incident. And he hoped he could forget about it too.

========================================================================================

Jon never really considered himself one to eavesdrop. He always felt uncomfortable crossing that type of boundary, listening in on others without them knowing. However, it seemed on the long and unyielding journey through the North, his mind wandered into daydreams and his ears focused in on discussions between various wildings he didn’t know.

He’d overheard many complaints and grievances about their current situation of endless walking, conversations about supplies and resources, half-a-dozen families happily chatting about pointless subjects, and a few hushed whispers he couldn’t really make out. There was really only one conversation that stuck with him for more than a few minutes.

They were on their last leg of their trip, about a day or so from the spot Manning and the other free folk had chosen to set down their roots. Jon was currently trudging through surprisingly light snow, hands on the reins of his horse. He had his hood down, as the howling winds they’d been subjected to the past few days had subsided; this made his subconscious habit of overhearing others much harder to prevent.

His horse was currently holding three young boys. Jon knew them as children of a large family of free folk, the matriarch of which was a member of their representatives. She had somewhere between seven to twelve siblings, the number changing every time he asked someone. The three boys were simply the youngest children of those siblings; Jon guessed them each to be around eight or nine.

They’d been babbling about nonsense for an hour now, and he was just about ready to find someone else to listen in on when two older girls trotted up to the horse.

“Where have you three been?” One of them exclaimed. She looked to be eleven, maybe twelve, and bore a striking resemblance to one of the kids on his horse. Piercing green eyes, long crooked nose, and hair bordering between brown and auburn.

“Merin was complaining about walking, so the crow offered Aunt Phagri his horse for him to ride on. We only tagged along.”

“You were complaining too!”

“Was not!” The boys bickered, as the girls walked in pace with the horse.

“Father was wondering where you’ve been. Why didn’t you say anything?” The girl questioned angrily. The other girl, quieter and younger with dirty blonde hair, snuck a glance in Jon’s direction. He smiled slightly in response, and she quickly pretended that she never saw him by turning her attention back towards her friend.

“Come, we’re going back to join everyone.” The first girl demanded. The boy–her brother, Jon guessed–flinched back in protest.

“No! A few more minutes.”

“Yeah please Kari? Just a little longer.” The third boy finally spoke up, and he was making eye contact with the other girl. They also seemed to be related, judging from their identical long dirty blonde hair.

The older girl hesitated, and rolled her eyes. She seemed to be contemplating, and Jon wondered if he should chime in or merely watch to see where this went.

“Fine, as long as you and Ofryn carry our packs for the rest of the day.” She compromised, and the younger one, Kari, nodded in agreement.

“Merin, I supposed you’re off the hook.” She remarked. The boy at the front stuck his tongue out at his friends, as they berated him for being lucky to not have an older sister. Jon smiled to himself.

“Have you and Phaylar been playing the game we taught you?” Ofryn said softly. The middle boy clapped his hands in excitement, as Kari mimicked her friend (cousin?) and rolled her eyes.

“That game gets boring quickly, if there’s nothing new to look at.” She responded. After a beat, she turned and looked out at the horizon. “Farsid, I can see something that starts with…“C”.” She was squinting as she spoke, and the boy in the middle–Farsid, he presumed–followed her gaze.

“Oooo I know it!” Merin exclaimed. Phaylar whacked his leg draped over the horse.

“She didn’t ask you.” The girl emphasized, and Merin pouted. Ofryn leaned forward from the back of the horse and tapped his friend on the shoulder.

“I know it too.” He whisper yelled, and Merin snickered. Farsid still seemed to be in deep contemplation.

“Oh, is it cloud?” He asked, and Kari nodded her head. He clapped once more, legs kicking up and down from excitement as well. Jon almost got knocked in the shoulder, as all five of them seemed completely oblivious to his close presence. He wondered if he should distance himself, but the innocence tugged at his nostalgia for simpler times; his mind drifted to Winterfell as the children continued their game for a few short minutes.

“Okay Phaylar, I can see something….that’s….bigger then a cat but smaller…than a horse. And it starts with an “M”.” Ofryn spoke quietly from the back. She furrowed her brows and looked at the boy.

“Did you pick something near us? I thought you could only choose things far away.” She asked, and the kid responded by shaking his head vigorously.

“Only as long as it’s not right next to you.” Jon just now noticed the young boy had a lisp. He presumed that the kid’s quiet talking must be a way to mask it.

Phaylar scanned the area in front of them for a moment, before Merin started laughing.

“Hehehe, it’s that sleeping man in the cart up there. You used that one last game.” He interjected, and Farsid jokingly tugged his ear.

“He didn’t ask you, you just spoiled it!” Farsid grumbled, as Merin called out and the girls giggled.

“He looks dead almost, doesn’t he?” Merin said, once he’d shooed Farsid off his ear. Jon wasn’t watching them at that moment, but he could feel the smiles fall off their faces as soon as the boy spoke. It was easy to forget that these kids had gone through just as many traumatizing experiences as everyone else; maybe death hit a little too close to home for them.

Jon peered out at the man in question. He was lying on his back, feet propped up, and using a bundle of hay as a pillow. He was clearly just sleeping, if for no simpler reason than his feet would’ve fallen over from the bumpiness of the trail rather than staying upright. Jon turned his attention back towards the kids when one of them spoke up again, taking care to make his observations discreet.

“Do you remember how mum killed that wight when we were down south?” Farsid said quickly, directing his question at his sister. They all remained quiet for a few moments, and Jon caught Phaylar nodding her head slightly from the corner of his eye. He wondered what the story was behind their silence, whether it was merely memories of fear and grief or if there was something deeper and more personal. He hoped in his heart that they still had their mother, but from the look he saw on the girl’s face, Jon was doubtful.

It was Merin who spoke up next.

“My mum was one of the first people out of the crypts once the wight’s stopped attacking.” The boy’s usual excitement had drained from his voice, and Jon realized that this wasn’t just any interaction with the Night King’s army they were discussing: it was Winterfell.

“She said there were so many bodies she felt as if she were wading through knee-high water.” Jon wanted to stop listening, leave these kids to their privacy, but he couldn’t help wondering about their experiences. He'd always felt too guilty to bring up the battle at Winterfell to the free folk, and now he was presented with an opportunity to get first hand accounts.

“Your mother left that soon after?” Kari questioned. Merin acknowledged her with a nod. She looked down.

“We stayed down in the crypts for hours after they all collapsed. It wasn’t until my older brother came and got us that we left.” She wrapped her arms around herself as she spoke.

Ofryn stared at his sister for a moment, as he seemed to be considering what to say. He leaned forward a bit to talk.

“Did your fathers ever tell you about how the walkers were defeated?” He asked. Merin made a noise that seemed to be a morbid bark of laughter.

“No, but everyone knows it was Arya Stark.” Merin responded. Jon’s hand tightened around the reins of the horse. He held a mixture of pride and longing as he thought of his sister, off exploring the seas.

“Not just that it was her. Our brother said he heard descriptions from the other men. They were saying she was wearing the face of a dead man as a disguise, and she jumped from the trees to kill the Night King.” He made a motion of stabbing with his hand, and Jon couldn’t help but chuckle to himself.

“No no no, that’s rubbish. My father said that she shape-shifted into a hawk as an ambush and she took his head clean off.” Farsid chimed in.

Phaylar added, “It wasn’t a hawk, it was a raven. She warged into a raven, and it brought her the knife she used to cut his head off.”She drew her finger across her throat, and Kari pushed her playfully.

“You’re both wrong, what Ofryn said was directly from those who saw it.”

“I think you’re all wrong.”

“You always do Merin.”

Merin rolled his eyes at the teasing. “My father said she used the walker’s own spear to strike him clean through the heart, and that she took it with her after the battle was over.” He declared, and seemed proud of himself.

Kari quickly interjected. “Whatever actually happened, she still saved us all.” She stole another glance at Jon, who had been desperately trying to hide the fact he was watching them through sly movements and quick reflexes. This time, however, he failed, and Kari’s face shifted into one of embarrassment and realization. Jon’s relation to the Slayer of the Night King was no secret.

Her demeanor completely changed, Kari quickly lifted her brother from the horse. “That’s longer than a few minutes. It’s time for you to carry my bag.” She plopped Ofryn on the ground and took off her large tote. She draped it over the younger boy’s shoulder, and urged Phaylar to do the same with a look.

Jon pulled the reins to make the horse stop, and the boys all whined as they reluctantly demounted their free ride. Farsid took Phaylar’s tote, and the five of them trotted off behind Jon back to their family. As Jon stuck his foot into the saddle and prepared to climb onto his horse, he looked back and caught Kari’s eye one last time. She was looking over her shoulder at him and held his gaze for a moment; Jon could read the intimidation and embarrassment on the surface, but she also seemed to be communicating a sense of gratitude, however small.

She ended her stare down by quickly turning back around and leaning into Phaylar’s ear to whisper something. The other girl copied her cousin and spun around to look at him too. He gave her a slight gesture of acknowledgment, and Phaylar did nothing but look horrified in return, presumably at the idea of openly discussing his sister mere feet from him.

Social anxieties aside, Jon wasn’t a stranger to how the free folk felt about him. He’d gotten many subtle (and some not so subtle) looks of apprehension, mixed with muddled feelings of appreciation. However, seeing those same feelings written across the face of a girl who was only a few years younger than Sansa and Arya struck him differently.

Maybe he was simply reminded of how much he missed his family. Or maybe he was reminded of his wish for simpler times, when he wasn’t the reclusive and reluctant leader of a people he practically owed a life debt to. Or maybe it was possible that those small looks of thankfulness and recognition were the only reason he didn’t run off all together. To know that he was, in fact, changing things for the better.

It was the knowledge that his reparation wasn’t for naught, that although he was exiled, he wasn’t on an endless path of self-destruction. He actually had the chance to willingly _prove _himself worthy of leading rather than it being thrust upon him with no warning. He could earn his spot in a way that meant something – to him and the free folk.

If even a young girl could accept him when he didn’t think he deserved it, then maybe there was hope for him yet.


	6. Make Ends Meet

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jon deals with conflict, and the free folk learn to live with each other.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have not forgotten about this story yet! I've been working on some other projects, and this one just kinda fell out of view for a second as a result. But we're back with, admittedly, one of my favorite chapters so far. I hope everyone enjoys, so sorry for the delay as always (yikes), and I'll see yall next chapter. Cheers!

Jon had a rock in his boot.

It was the only damn thing he could focus on. He’d lost track of what time it was or how far they’d gone, instead his mind going as numb as his thighs, laser focused on the sharp twinge in his left foot which appeared and disappeared with every step. Their supposed two week journey to a new settling ground was now ending on the fifteenth day. Manning and the men who’d gone scouting had spent the past three days absolutely insisting that their utopia of hot springs and fresh soil was “just over this pass”. Jon had even heard the Watchmen himself insist their spot was “right around this bend”.

That was four bends ago.

The sun had long since set, days growing shorter as they ventured further north. They would’ve ceased traveling for the day, if not for the two hour midday break to stave off people’s exhaustion. Food supply was running short, and Jon hadn’t heard much in the way of positivity in over 36 hours; their only good fortune was that the weather had been mild.

If it weren’t for his fellow Watchmen’s everlasting confidence that they were really _really_ right near a flat plot of land to settle on, Jon would’ve insisted they camp for the night when he heard mention of a man collapsing earlier that evening. But alas, after an impromptu representative gathering, everyone decided to cap their travels for the day once the moon was a quarter of the way through the sky. Manning just seemed so _sure. _

Jon dragged his feet (his horse was long gone by this point) through mushy, rocky, snow, lost in deep contemplation in order to distract himself from his own exhaustion. Waves crashed on the shore to his right, melting away bits of snow and soothing his mind. The only thing that really reminded him he was walking was the pinprick of pain in his foot.

He was brought back to reality by a wildling aggressively shaking his shoulder. The older man pointed forward urgently once Jon acknowledged him, a grin scrawled across his face. Jon whipped his head forward and heard: boisterous cheers and cries, and one voice bellowing “WE’VE REACHED IT” louder than all the rest.

He took off running, adrenaline allowing him to abandon tiredness and the presence of one infuriating rock, instead overwhelming his mind with rejoice. He dodged and weaved a few wildlings ahead of him, before rounding a tall cliff on his left and reaching the spot of the cheers.

Before him, Jon saw an immensely large area of wide, flat land. Just as Manning had described, the sea had carved into the coast, creating a tiny bay that was no bigger than Winterfell’s castle. But beyond the water, as far as Jon’s eyes could see in the dark night, was a field twice the size of the one that held Mance Raydar’s camp of free folk. It extended north, seemingly to the horizon, and as Jon looked west, he could faintly make out mountains among the darkness.

Tormund, Manning, as well as a few others were whooping and cheering, rolling around in the snow a few meters from him. Jon knew they’d have to explore the area to take inventory on what resources were available; but for now, as the moon was beginning to peak up over the water to the east, he knew that could all wait till tomorrow. For now, he could celebrate and rejoice in the expanse of habitable land. He kicked his left boot off, ridding himself of the pebble, and let his foot sink into the cold snow, the shock of the feeling not detracting from his hope for the future.

========================================================================================

In the five weeks since their arrival to what they were now calling Promise Cove, Jon had learned three things.

The first was that he absolutely _despised _shelter-building.

He’d long since lost count of how many people he’d help set up tents. Most knew what to do, but primarily needed an extra pair of hands. Jon was young and fit and the perfect candidate to help jam posts into the ground and heave large tarps over logs to set up a dwelling. So they came, sheepishly requesting, and he always said yes.

Around the third week, Jon started wrapping thin strips of cloth dipped in watered down tree resin around the tips of his fingers. They were raw from spending hours tying rope around posts and he worried that the flesh would blister and start to die if he didn’t employ some sort of protection. He changed bandages every morning, taking care to look for any sign of sick flesh or odd colored blood.

The second thing he learned was he desperately needed practice with a bow.

He never considered himself to be a master, but he didn’t think he was an amateur either. That notion was quickly changed though when they went out hunting and Jon had one too many embarrassing shots to think he was anywhere near decent. He never bothered learning the bow truly, because…well…the bow wasn’t really his weapon. It was someone else’s.

Past lovers aside, he also didn’t have good aim. Tormund called him blind, and it appeared his vision started to get faintly blurry after about 10 or so meters. He’d missed two shots in a row when his friend insisted that Jon work as prey lookout rather than hunter when their group went out to find food. He didn’t argue.

And lastly, the third thing he learned was that everyone, no matter age, gender, ethnicity or any other variable, came to him when there was a dispute. Whether it was over an argument over a plot of land, accusations of stolen water, frustration at others due to loud snoring, or conflict about who had to clean the sectional latrine, Jon found them all coming to him to resolve it. He never would’ve expected to be the mediator in this brave new world, and yet, that’s the position he’d unofficially been assigned. Problem-solver, de-facto moderator, and the resident tent builder of Promise Cove.

What joy.

He was in the middle of quelling the dispute over firewood possession. Two families had mistaken a store of wood for theirs, and now they were struggling to discern what section of the large pile of wood belonged to who. Jon was _attempting _to compromise for 50/50 but no one seemed to budge.

“My son spent hours longer than you chopping. There’s no possible way half of this can be yours when you barely spent a quarter of the time making wood.” An older woman cried.

“Your son is a dreadfully slow wood chopper, I’ve seen it. Even if we only spent little time chopping, it’d still be equivalent to what you had!” A man leaning on a long stick for support shot back, and the woman scoffed at his response.

“Dwerna, Gry, I understand it’s hard to come to a consensus here, so I think it’d be best if we compromise by splitting the wood in half, and I can assign one of the other men to help make up the difference if you believe it necessary. I beg you, sharing resources is the utmost importance at this time. We’re all scrambling to gather what we can.” Jon urged. The woman hesitated as if contemplating Jon’s proposal, while Gry guffawed.

“Please Jon Snow, if you think this woman will ever agree to compromise, you’re stupider then I realized.” He shuffled forward towards Jon as he spoke, hobbling slightly, but still finding humor in the situation. Jon squinted at him.

“Will you, Dwerna?” Jon moved his attention to the woman sitting on the wagon. She looked longingly at the pile of wood. She spun her head around a moment, observing the bustling movement of the others around her. Dwerna turned back and looked mildly defeated and regretful.

“You are a persuasive man Jon Snow. Despite what Gry insists on, I am not as ignorant as he believes.” She sighs. “We’re all just trying to make ends meet. If you could send a man to help build up wood stock, my family would greatly appreciate it.” She asked softly. Jon nodded to reassure her.

“And you, Gry?” He puffed his lips, and shook his head.

“We’re cold blooded in the Gry family. Won’t need as much wood as Dwerna and her children. Save those who can freely chop for people who need it the most.” He gave a polite nod to Jon and Dwerna before limping back into his tent.

“Jon!” A woman’s voice cried from afar, and he spun to find the origin. He saw Igne, flowing black hair and all stalking towards him. She looked high-strung, glancing around at those she passed, and approached him in a hurry.

“I need to speak with you. In private.” Jon furrowed his eyebrows together and followed her back to the representatives tent. She swished the front curtain open, and Jon ducked in behind her. Igne stomped over to one of the desks and fished through a drawer; she pulled out a small collection of papers and waited patiently. Jon, still confused, walked over to inspect the papers.

“You set up that grievances box outside right? These are a few letters I’ve gathered which all relate to one particular problem.” Jon picked up one paper as she spoke and a singular word caught his eye.

_Thenns._

He looked up at Igne worried.

“There’s over 20 different families worried about a group of them. They’re in the southern section, and they keep to themselves. Most of the letters are paranoid, frightened, folk, but there are a few in here which have genuine concerns about what they do at night.” She continued as Jon examined the papers.

“I wasn’t going to mention it unless someone came to us directly to complain. It didn’t seem all that serious.” Jon looked up questionably.

“‘Didn’t?’” He quoted. She planted her fists on the desk and leaned forward. 

“I had a group of about 15 people from a variety of families express their intense worry about them. They reported missing food, loud noises at night, and one of them even saw a Thenn carrying around a dead animal he _swore_ he knew belonged to another family.” Igne recounted.

Jon thought for a second.

“Could they be lying?” He asked, and she shrugged.

“Maybe. But they could also be substantial accusations. We don’t know. That’s the problem.” Jon worked through it in his head, eliminating courses of action. He decided on one, and proposed it to Igne.

“I’ll go talk to them directly. And, yes, I’ll bring Tormund.” He added, when she looked as if she were going to interject.

“If the free folk are lying, then we’ll get an open, believable explanation for everything, and we won’t have to act further. If they’re telling the truth, the Thenns will be guarded and sparse with the details. And then….” Jon trailed off, and Igne examined him.

“Then…we’ll figure out what comes next.” He reluctantly finished. He doesn’t want to consider the possibility that they may have to hold a public execution in their newly flourishing society. But if the grievances are legitimate then…

Jon may not have a choice.

========================================================================================

It was midmorning the following day, the sun peeking over the horizon of the ocean. Sunrises were quite the spectacle at this area, sky flush with streaks of vibrant colors. Most everyone was awake by now, since daybreak started quite late in the morning. It had taken some adjusting to get used to the short days, but Jon believed he and the rest of their camp thought it normal by now.

They were making their way to the southern edges of camp. In the first week or so, they’d employed a project to make fences around their settlement; this lead to the decision to map out the location of different groups of families, noting stores of water and setting up some minimal organization to their layout. The last thing Jon wanted was to have to scramble around the whole area searching for one particular person, so they thought it best for people to declare their living spaces once everyone set down roots.

As Igne stated, the Thenn’s lived right up against the fence at the south of camp, nestled against the coast. They’d confirmed that all the complaints about them were also from families who lived nearby, and weren’t blatant lies only meant to stir chaos. They dodged and weaved people walking through the rows of tents, and arrived at the location.

There were two large tents huddled rather close to each other, a fire pit in the center meant to serve both. The area looked deserted, save for one man sitting on a log, using a small blade to carve a piece of wood. He looked up at Jon and Tormund as they arrived. He was bald, and had markings along his head and down his face. The other thing of note was a metal piercing through his bottom lip. They approached him slowly, the man standing up to greet them.

“The King Crow in the flesh. Wonderful to make your acquaintance.” He spoke in a deep, gravely voice. “And you must be Tormund, his right hand. What brings you all the way down to our slice of land?” He asked. Jon made a note in his head of the man’s confidence and lack of reservedness.

“We’re following up on some…complaints from this area mister…” Jon trailed off, wondering if his formal stance may be unnatural to this man.

“Alfyr. What are the complaints about?” He responded politely. Jon hesitated for a moment, side eyeing Tormund. He contemplated being subtle or direct, and his friend must’ve noted his struggle because he spoke for him.

“How many people in your clan?” Tormund asked, stalking forward slightly. The redhead had finally met his match, with Alfyr being exactly the same height, if not taller. Jon examined his reaction, but the Thenn remained neutral.

“There’s two groups. My family and another. In total, eleven of us.” He answered, turning back to sit on the log and resume carving. Now close up, Jon could see what exactly he was making; it appeared to be a snake, curled up around itself, tongue out. He swallowed his suspicions for a moment.

“Why a snake?” Tormund seemed taken aback by his question, as did Alfyr. The bald man glanced down, before holding up his creation for closer look.

“It was the symbol of my family when I was a boy. We were deserters of the ice-river clans, and my father always said the snake was a symbol of rebirth and new life. That’s what we made for ourselves then.” He stared at the snake as he spoke, before slyly looking up at Jon.

“And that’s what we’re doing now.” He declared knowingly, tone shifted from neutral to contained anger.

“Those who complained, they were worried about us, correct? They don’t trust us?” He placed the snake on the ground, walking past Tormund up to Jon. The Watchmen held his expression, giving a quick nod.

“Of course they don’t and I don’t blame them. Our clan were considered savages, the most dangerous of those beyond your wall. But that doesn’t change the fact that we’re refugees too.” Alfyr ended his case. Jon and Tormund exchanged a look of doubt; how trustworthy can one man be?

“So you’re saying they’re lying?” Tormund spat back. Alfyr laughed and shook his head.

“No, I’m saying their fear and paranoia allowed them to see what they wanted. Tell me, what was a specific complaint from others about our family?” He challenged.

“There were reports of loud noises at night and the fire being burned at all times.” Jon answered, stealing a look at the fire pit which, at this moment, had no fire burning. Alfyr gave a sad smile.

“My great aunt has horrible night terrors. She screams practically all night, and we’ve learned that having a fire burning quells her. The heat soothes her mind.” He explained.

“To someone who fears us, I would understand how these things can be seen as suspicious.” Alfyr finishes, looking rather defeated. Jon’s initial read of a confident man seemed to betray him, as under that persona, he could see clear as day how desperate this man wanted to keep his family safe.

“We apologize for the suspicions.” He said after a moment.

“I understand.”

“We’re going to follow up with the others, hopefully get them to understand that there’s a mistake.” Alfyr looked up surprised.

“Thank you, Jon Snow.” He softened his expression to show gratefulness. Jon acknowledged with a nod, and turned to leave.

Once they were a good distance away, Tormund questioned him.

“Do you believe him?” The redhead queried. Jon sighed.

“Aye, I think I do. I thought he was hiding something at first, but…he seems sincere.” He explained.

“Well, good luck convincing those who were worried about him. They won’t be too keen to know that their grievances are going ignored.” Tormund reasoned.

“They’re not being ignored, they’re being considered. There’s no just reason to actually suspect anything.” Jon protested.

“But will they see it that way?” The wildling insisted. Jon sighed again, and all he could do was hope for the best.

========================================================================================

Evidently, they did not.

“They’re savages! Cannibals! And you’re choosing to let them live next door to my children?”

“Mister Lefar, I promise you, Alfyr and his family are struggling as much as the rest of us. We’re _all_ trying to get a fresh start.” Jon’s head pounded as he fought back the accusations. They’d gathered a group of people who’d been concerned about the Thenns to explain the situation. In hindsight, it maybe wasn’t the best idea.

“Those animals would never be so domestic to settle down. Refugees or not, they can’t be trusted.” Another woman yelled, and there were cries of agreement.

“Can you trust me? Can you all trust me?” Jon yelled above the noise. His loud voice quieted the discourse.

“Because at the moment, they’ve given no indication that they intend to hurt us. So I trust them. And if you all trust me, then you should be willing to believe that they pose no threat.” He finished, and there were murmurs amongst the crowd.

“And why should we trust you, Jon?” An older man from behind spoke up. He had an intense scar across his cheek, stubble prickling his face. He walked towards Jon, clearly intending to challenge him.

“You’re not one of us. You never have been. Sure, you saved some of us at Hardhome, but you got the rest killed at Winterfell. We fought in your battles, and now this is all that remains of us.” He spoke passionately, Jon’s mouth locked shut at the insults.

“Those Thenns,” He spat. “Are as trustworthy as you are. They don’t deserve it. And you certainly don’t either.” Jon did his best to keep himself from falling apart.

“They’re just trying to survive.” He urged.

“They shouldn’t be allowed to.” A flash of hatred flared in this man’s eyes and Jon knew in that moment that if given the opportunity, he would kill every last one of them.

“Warek! That’s enough!” Tormund stepped forward, grabbing the man by the coat. He shoved him away from Jon, who looked down guiltily.

“We’ve all heard both sides of this argument.” The redhead snarled, looking to Jon for a decision.

“We’ll put it to a vote. Raise your hand if you think the Thenns should be allowed to stay.” He spoke slowly. Hesitantly, hands started raising around the tent. Jon and Tormund were first, but it quickly became apparent that his half hour of convincing had gotten through to some of them. In the end, there were about five men not raising their hands, including Warek.

“So it’s settled. The Thenns will be allowed the same respect given to every other refugee in this camp. This meeting is dismissed.” Jon spoke as quickly as possible, collapsing into a chair as people left. He didn’t miss the angry gaze Warek held as he slowly left the tent.

“I need you to guard Alfyr and the rest of them tonight. Warek seemed far too intent on….” He paused. “I don’t think he’ll give up easily.” Jon instructed Tormund, who nodded in agreement.

“I was thinking the same thing.” Tormund made his way to leave, pausing at the exit to turn and look at a very disgruntled Jon.

“If anything Jon Snow,” He started. “I think you’re as much a free folk as any other person here.” Tormund reassured. Jon stole a look at his friend, and smiled softly. Tormund gave a toothy grin, before leaving Jon alone with his thoughts.

========================================================================================

The next morning, Tormund reported back no incidents. Nothing short of a single rabbit hopping through camp which, obviously, Tormund killed for food. Crisis averted, Jon let some of the tenseness roll away as he resumed his daily routines. He gave an account of the previous day’s events to the rest of the representatives, Igne glad as seven hells that there wasn’t anything to be worried about from the Thenns.

He thought he was going to sleep easy that night.

It was the quiet flap of tarp that woke him. He usually staked down the entrance to his tent to prevent the wind from blowing through his dwelling and whipping the curtain all over the place. So when he was stirred from his sleep by that exact noise, he knew something was wrong.

The other thing of note was the moving shadows along his wall. He lay still on his side, eyes wide open. The unmistakable sound of footsteps and the shadow of a man sneaking around behind him made his heartbeat rise. He very slowly moved his arm down to grasp the handle of his sword. He wrapped his hands around the hilt and steadied himself.

“You’re no leader of mine.” He heard Warek’s voice clear as day. In the shadows, he saw the man draw his sword. At that development, Jon uncovered himself and whipped around. Warek’s eyes went wide and he lunged. But Jon was faster, and he drove his sword into the man’s chest, holding him by the shoulder.

Warek coughed, blood spilling out his mouth and wound. He made eye contact with Jon as he died, the light behind his eyes fading. He exhaled, head drooping forward. Jon awkwardly backed up, pulling his sword out and letting the man fall forward. He calmed his breathing, and made his way out of the tent to inform the others.

An hour or so later, in the dead of night, they held a small ceremony with all the representatives and those who knew Warek. Jon went forward and lit the small pyre that’d been hurriedly set up. It took longer to catch then normal, but soon enough, there was a roaring bonfire, crackling with ferocity.

Jon thought over if he should try and speak to these people. He stepped forward slightly, and gauged the reaction. No one seemed to be overtly annoyed, and he did notice a small nod from Tormund.

“This death…Warek’s death….was absolutely unnecessary. He died because of anger and contempt and distrust.” He announced. “Three things we will _need_ to eliminate in order for this society to thrive.”

“I know that we all have our differences. Amongst each other, and from you all….to me.” He said hesitantly. “But if anything we have more in common than we do different. We’re all starting new, we’re all trying to protect people. And if we don’t recognize that before we see the differences, then we will be buried under our own ignorance.” Jon didn’t even realize he was pacing until now.

“There is no survival unless there is trust. And trust must go both ways. I hope you can all respect that.” Jon finished his speech and stalked off back to his tent, praying to the Old Gods and the New that the lesson learned would resonate. Otherwise, he knew Promise Cove would be destined to fail.

And THAT, Jon thought, would be the worst thing of all, because the last thing he needed on his plate was another failure.

It was selfish and he knew it, to be fighting for their society for the sake of his own ego and self-respect. But it, along with every other righteous reason he had in his heart, kept him going. No matter how much he hated making tents or how out of his depth he felt when someone came to him over a conflict, in the end all that mattered was survival. For everyone.

And he was going to guarantee it happened. Even if he had to die all over again, he would do everything in his power to make sure that these people would draw breath. He made that promise to himself a long time ago, but it was never more apparent than tonight.

The free folk would live. And Jon Snow would make sure of it.


End file.
